


On A Wet Night

by Crowgirl



Series: Welcoming Silences [66]
Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-11 02:08:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16466666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: This is the third dish he’s broken in the two weeks he’s been in London and if he goes on like this, he’s going to need to start buying replacements on a regular basis.





	On A Wet Night

The knock at the door comes just as Foyle is fishing the last chip of china out of the sink and he wonders briefly if he’s been cursing loud enough to be heard through the walls. He’s not used to living in a flat and having other people he doesn’t know within earshot at all times. Or perhaps this is Mrs Hamilton come to ask another question she doesn’t need an answer to. 

He drops the chip into the broken saucer and stares at it gloomily. This is the third dish he’s broken in the two weeks he’s been in London and if he goes on like this, he’s going to need to start buying replacements on a regular basis. 

The knock comes again and Foyle considers ignoring it entirely. It’s late -- well, after eight at least -- and it would be entirely reasonable for him to have retired for the night. If there were an emergency, Hilda would ring up, not come knocking, and he doesn’t know anyone else. The idea of dealing with Mrs Hamilton is exhausting; she wouldn't even be a bother if he could simply wear his ring. But, of course, he can’t. He can feel it, the familiar tap just over his breastbone, but there it has to stay.

There’s a third knock and Foyle sighs, throwing down the dish towel. ‘Coming.’ 

As he passes through the sitting room, he realises the light drizzle of a few hours before has turned into a steady downpour; he’ll have to fish out his umbrella for tomorrow. Where had he packed it again? Somewhere in with his clothes makes the most sense and-- ‘Paul?’ 

Paul is standing in the hallway, dripping gently onto the industrial grey carpeting. He looks flushed and a little sheepish and quite the most lovely thing Foyle has seen since he’s been in London. ‘I -- er --’ Paul hesitates and stops.

Foyle stares at him for a moment before realising that he’s staring. ‘Come in.’

Paul edges his way in carefully, clearly trying to drip on as little of the floor as possible. ‘I’m -- I’m sorry, I -- didn’t mean --’

‘Is something wrong?’ Foyle pushes the door shut.

Paul shakes his head and flinches as drops of water from his hat brim strike his face. He takes the hat off; the felt squelches in his fingers and Paul winces again. ‘So much for that, I suppose. But, no, nothing’s wrong. I just --’ He drops the hat on the rug and looks back at Foyle. ‘I missed you.’ He says it almost defiantly, as if he’s expecting Foyle to argue with him and all Foyle can think is that he hasn’t unpacked the spare towels yet. 

Paul takes Foyle’s silence for something it isn’t and stumbles on: ‘I know it sounds foolish and -- I’ve got to get straight back tomorrow in any case but --’

‘I’ve dropped two teacups in the past week trying to hand you one,’ Foyle says before Paul can tie himself in any more knots. ‘And I keep tripping over Tweed.’

Paul stops, then smiles, slowly, almost cautiously. ‘She’s been looking for you. I think she thinks I’ve got you hidden away somewhere out of pure meanness of spirit.’ 

Foyle reaches out, meaning to ask for Paul’s coat but he finds himself pushing it aside, putting his hands on Paul’s chest instead, feeling the solidity of muscle through his shirt, the familiar scent of soap and skin-warmed cloth. Paul hesitates for a second, then puts his hands on Foyle’s wrists, pulling him in so they’re toe to toe. ‘I missed you,’ Paul repeats, this time softly, almost gently, leaning forward so his nose almost brushes Foyle's forehead.

Foyle nods. ‘And I missed you.’ 


End file.
